( it’s a deft working at that button, a tug that relieves the zipper and she’s able to curl her wrist within that minimal space between him, tuck beneath that gruff layer, the thin cotton of his briefs and wrap nimble fingers around him. he’s hot in her palm, gives a dull throb as digits wrap around him and milk a tug from the base til she’s able to thumb over the swell of his tip—and he almost cowers into her, breaks against the line of her shoulder and the heat of his breaths there can be felt warming down her chest, pulling that distinct need beneath her navel where hips rut towards her own wrist.
that curse lights a spark in her belly, and she has to wonder how long it’s been, for him—the last time someone’s touched him like this, the last time he’d been able to hide in another’s shoulder, another’s flesh, forget himself for nothing but that spiraling, spiraling chase. and she thinks they’re both showing their cards here, private and shared just between the two of them, unveiling a puncturing need, unsure of how to make it something neat, unsure of exactly where to put it and so it leaves them conversing in nothing more than ragged breaths. flushed cheeks and rattling hearts, and it renews a vigor within her to give him exactly that: a reminder. how it feels: to want, to be wanted—to hunger.
there’s no part of her willing to let go of him once he’s released the clasp of her bra, craning her head back against that cushion, his mouth beside her throat, keening up against the way he cups her breast. she knows why he feels the need to be gentle, to handle her with care but she’s no fragile thing, and she’s using the bead that’s seeped from his tip to lave another stroke, fingers wrapped tight to his cock—a goading: feel me.
crown tips to the side and she’s mouthing heatedly at the rim of his ear. the couch is barely big enough to accommodate the two of them but all she can think about is him filling her, again and again, grasping feverishly at the back of his arm as he blooms rigidly in her opposite palm; another stroke, another lilt of his name. )
no subject
that curse lights a spark in her belly, and she has to wonder how long it’s been, for him—the last time someone’s touched him like this, the last time he’d been able to hide in another’s shoulder, another’s flesh, forget himself for nothing but that spiraling, spiraling chase. and she thinks they’re both showing their cards here, private and shared just between the two of them, unveiling a puncturing need, unsure of how to make it something neat, unsure of exactly where to put it and so it leaves them conversing in nothing more than ragged breaths. flushed cheeks and rattling hearts, and it renews a vigor within her to give him exactly that: a reminder. how it feels: to want, to be wanted—to hunger.
there’s no part of her willing to let go of him once he’s released the clasp of her bra, craning her head back against that cushion, his mouth beside her throat, keening up against the way he cups her breast. she knows why he feels the need to be gentle, to handle her with care but she’s no fragile thing, and she’s using the bead that’s seeped from his tip to lave another stroke, fingers wrapped tight to his cock—a goading: feel me.
crown tips to the side and she’s mouthing heatedly at the rim of his ear. the couch is barely big enough to accommodate the two of them but all she can think about is him filling her, again and again, grasping feverishly at the back of his arm as he blooms rigidly in her opposite palm; another stroke, another lilt of his name. )